


Senses.

by werewolve



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Absolutely nothing but niceness, Comfort, Domestic, Fluff, I decided this is what their development would be like after reading one and a half books, In essence take note Netflix I'm coming for you, Just a little senses based fic if you couldn't tell by the title, M/M, No Angst, One Shot, Short & Sweet, Somewhat plotless, This is going exactly where you think it is, and watching the Polish TV series, you construct intricate rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:14:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23201518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werewolve/pseuds/werewolve
Summary: 'There’s that quote that says ‘you construct intricate rituals’ and it fitted them rather well.'
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 66





	Senses.

There was no conversation; no revelation; no definitive moment. 

There was no outburst or soul searching, nothing at all to catapult Geralt and Jaskier’s relationship full throttle through some wall, or over some distance.

Instead it happened gradually, unnoticeably, over time. 

It began with glances. Where Jaskier was usually the one to gaze longingly at Geralt, Geralt began doing the same. Across rooms they’d watch each other, in no way unusual to their normal habits, and yet still slightly more than previously. They’d lock eyes occasionally when talking in taverns, Geralt no longer staring out of a window or into his tankard. He’d watch Jaskier intently as he performed, and they’d share glances over lyrics they both knew had a far deeper meaning. 

Smell was never really a noticeable thing, at least not in any positive way. Geralt often reeked of wherever he’d recently killed something, Jaskier was often scented with the overpowering aroma of some odd combination of various flowers and cologne. However after weeks on the road the pair began to take on the smell of kindled fires and fresh cut grass. Jaskier began smelling something like the musk of leather and Geralt of the delicacy of roses. When they walked into a room there were either pinched noses of disgust or peculiar faces of curiosity, and more often both received comments from old friends on the odd nature of their specific fragrance. 

On the note of talks and songs, they each too became more trained to the others' words as time went by. Vocal cues committed to memory to remain there forever. Tone became easier to distinguish even through Geralt’s mutations and Jaskier’s lack of full understanding for the witcher’s flat voice. When Jaskier rambled, Geralt listened, and not only listened- remembered. He’d bring up the topic again later at their camp for the night, or at the inn, and watch as Jaskier lit up with happiness for being able to continue. Jaskier listened to Geralt too, as Geralt began to talk more. The witcher opened himself up to conversation and as a result told tales Jaskier had only imagined. Geralt even began commenting on Jaskier’s lyrics- constructively. He gave him pointers, suggested new adventures he could write about, spared no detail of previous toils. At night they’d talk for hours, sat or lay beneath the stars, about anything and everything their hearts desired. 

Then with that came touch. Small moments of contact. Jaskier would brush his shoulder against Geralt’s as they rode side by side. Geralt would press the toe of his boot against the arch of Jaskier’s under tables. Across the top of the wood they’d keep their drinks close so that their fingertips would meet as they reached for them, so that they could flatten their palms and let their pinky fingers rest against, or atop, one another. The witcher would press his hand against the small of Jaskier’s back to guide him away from situations, and the bard would lean his elbow on Geralt’s shoulder as Geralt sat discussing his latest possible contract. Whenever they were sat on the same side of a bench, they seemed to sit so close and at such an odd angle that it was impossible to imagine anything other than the bard’s legs thrown casually over one of Geralt’s thighs. At camp, they’d take turns to be the one sat atop a log, or the one sat between the other’s legs on the floor. Jaskier would comb through Geralt’s hair and braid it, Geralt would sling his arms over Jaskier’s shoulders and rest his chin atop his head. When Geralt grew frustrated or emotional and had no other outlet, he would hug Jaskier from behind and hide his face in between the bard’s shoulder blades. When Jaskier got anxious or panicked, he’d curl up against Geralt and allow the witcher to take his cupped hands between his own to keep his fingernails from digging in too far. 

Touch was their largest category. It could span for pages. There’s that quote that says ‘you construct intricate rituals’ and it fitted them rather well. Jaskier had always taken any and all chances to be close to Geralt, and so he seldom noticed when Geralt began doing the same. To the both of them, nothing had changed at all, only now they’d sometimes wake up curled together in one bedroll rather than on separate sides of the camp in two. Only now sharing a bed at inns came as a given, not as a way to save coins. Only now Jaskier’s head on Geralt’s shoulder was a usual sight, and Geralt’s hand on Jaskier’s thigh was even more so. 

So when Jaskier had straddled Geralt at their camp to inspect a deep wound on his face that had developed an odor seemingly indicative of an infection, that required the bard cupping Geralt’s cheeks in his hands despite the witcher’s grunts of protest that he would, as always, be fine. Geralt listened intently as Jaskier explained he’d need to stitch the cut. Jaskier dabbed the wet cloth to the site with care. Geralt watched the form of the other’s lips and Jaskier seemed to lose himself in the distraction of Geralt’s slit pupils. Of which he realised he’d never seen so closely before. 

So what logically followed was an inevitable progression, one with no buildup and no downfall.

Geralt tasted of old ale, of something smokey and sweet, he tasted of their last meal and of the metallic tang of blood. Jaskier too tasted of alcohol, but rather the tartness of wine which so frequently stained his lips. He tasted of fresh mint and charred meat, and the smell of desire and comfort. Geralt could do little more to describe those last two than by their scent to him. 

Nothing grand happened after that. Nothing of note.

Jaskier pointed out that Geralt’s eyes looked near black as his pupils grew round. Geralt chased Jaskier’s lips as the bard decided to chatter again. Jaskier chased back as the witcher feigned a mood after not getting what he wanted. 

They went about the rest of their morning as usual. 

A cycle of senses completed at last.


End file.
